


traces of heaven

by cursinginenochian



Series: tumblr fics against boredom [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Misses Heaven Sometimes, Castiel-centric, Fluff, Gen, Human Castiel, Snow, Winter, mentions of angst, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9530618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursinginenochian/pseuds/cursinginenochian
Summary: If Castiel had to choose a month of the Christian calendar's year to be his favorite, he would have to admit that that he's taken a liking to February in particular.





	

Winter has fallen upon the sleepy Kansas skies, and it becomes normal for flurries to gather on the steps leading down to the bunker each time the rusted metal door is hauled open. The old heater in the east side whins in response to being ran at all hours, but eventually it too grows accustomed to keeping the bitter cold from seeping through the bunker’s thick walls.

Sometimes, on the coldest nights, Castiel slips out of those same confining walls long before the sun has risen, when the ground is still smooth; an untouched blanket of sparkling snow that stretches farther than he can see. He pulls on a pair of boots resting near the entrance stairway -- the black ones, because even though they are falling apart, the brown pair is Dean's favorite. Whether Dean himself would admit to something so petty is another debate for a different day, but even though bickering over whose shoes are whose is the least of their concerns, Castiel has never had any intent in destroy anything of Dean's.

_As if you haven't before_ , a darker part of him sometimes hisses. There are times when that thought alone damn him into a sinkhole of guilt and depression for days at a time because the things he's done to Dean, to Sam, to his brothers and sisters and to humanity. . .

On days when he is stronger, he can pack those dripping, acidic thoughts into a box and dismiss them, for the time being, let it leak through another day. Sam and Dean have forgiven those mistakes, at least to an extent. On the coldest nights of winter he is only responsible for the condition of Dean's shoes instead of his soul, and trudging through freshly fallen snow would surely ruin the footwear's fabric. So he ties up the frayed laces of worn, black boots, buttons up his trench, and tries not slam the heavy, iron plated front door.

If Castiel had to choose a month of the Christian calendar's year to be his favorite, he would have to admit that that he's taken a liking to February in particular. The snowfall is comfortable in comparison to the sometimes frigid storms that arise in December and January, the nights the flakes pick at his skin like shards of broken glass. On the second month of the year, Castiel can sit by a tree with a blue scarf that he'd found discarded at a shelter during his time homeless. He wraps the knitted fabric loose around his neck, pushes it into his overcoat, and trys to think of both everything and nothing. From between the branches above him, the small flakes of shining white fall from what can appear to be the faintest traces of Heaven, if he squints his eyes and tilts his head at a certain angle.

He isn't fond of what comes with sitting in the snow at the earliest hours of the morning; he catches colds just as easily as anyone else since he's Fallen and by the time he comes back to the bunker his fingers are numb, cheeks reddened and ears stinging from the temperature. Sometimes he'll lose track of time and before he knows it, the sun is peeking from between the trees and his pajama pants are soaked to his skin. Dean isn't all too happy then, when Cas stumbles back inside at the crack of dawn, dripping wet and freezing, but seeing the snowfall is worth every sore throat that comes with sitting in the woods and every snippy remark that either Winchester makes about the shivering angel-made-human.

When Castiel had wings and grace in tow, he would have been able to observe every snowflakes pattern with a microscopic amount of effort -- an angel's vision can trump the capabilities of the human eyes with no trouble. He knows this well, and sometimes he finds himself aching for his grace in the same way that someone might long for a lost limb, but when he leans back against the rough bark of an oak tree, legs folded beneath him and occasional flake sticking to his eyelashes, he realizes that he will be okay, at least for that moment. A sky full of snowflakes will suffice.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading and have a happy february! comment, bookmark, or find me on tumblr (@cursinginenochian) if you'd like :)


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